57 am:

Night like thunder-bolt rumbles me raw.
Yet to be discovered,
under-cover of darkness
the light in me hides only to burst forth in bloom.
In good time.
All in time,
tumbling forth into extasy or uncertainty. . .
it's all the same.
Yet to be and yet beholden in this hour.
The blinking digital dimples wink me half the time;
:57 A.M.
Three minutes til some full hour.
So near,
a heartbeat in the frame of eternity;
an eternity if you're waiting for life's first breath.
But wait we will.
Under-cover or in the brightest light.
The reflecting glow of the night's sole illuminary does its work.
The orb which calls forth the blank black minions
serves to point out the hope of dawn.
The certain sunrise.
The truth. . .
the dawn is telling the truth!
The truth amongst so many midnight lies.